Unfortunate Souls
by Owl At The End
Summary: Collections of one shots ranging from family to angst. Snippets of the Winchester brother's lives, whether they're enjoyable or events they'd rather soon forget. Trigger warnings within each chapter.
1. Bones

**AN Just throwing out some oneshots that I've written from my tumblr. Figured I should put them somewhere. :) **

**1: Bones**

The splintering of wood sounded loud to Dean even with the dirt walls of the grave absorbing the sound. Running a hand across his forehead, not caring or noticing the smear of mud that was left behind, Dean stepped back to examine his work.

"You alright down there?" He heard Sam call down into the hole.

Dean scoffed, "Yeah, no thanks to you, princess. Too afraid to get your hands dirty? How about next time you get your ass down here and help me."

"I did help," Sam supplied, and Dean could hear him digging around in the duffel for the lighter fluid. Throwing the shovel up after caving the rest of the casket in, Dean hauled himself up and out of the grave. As Dean went to push himself out, he cursed when he realized he was about to fall into a bed of bones and broken wood as his hand slipped on the mud and lost purchase.

"Here, I gotchya." Sam said quickly and grabbed Dean's bicep, canister of lighter fluid temporarily forgotten. He pulled Dean up the rest of the way and smirked as his brother shrugged off his hand.

"Whatever, just light that son of a bitch up."

Sam happily obliged, dousing the bones in lighter fluid and flicking on Dean's lighter, taking a slight step back as the flames rose up and hungrily ate away at the lighter fluid.

"Good work today, Sammy." Dean said cheerily, giving his brother a firm pat on the shoulder and successfully smearing mud across a good portion of his flannel.

"Aw, dude." Sam jumped away from Dean, trying to brush off the mud, "You're disgusting."

Dean smirked as he pushed the shovels into Sam's arms, causing the younger to stumble slightly, "Oh please." He wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, managing to smudge the dirt further. His eyes were lit up with the undulating flames of the fire that crackled and popped down in the grave, "You like it." And he picked up the duffel and began to make his way back to the Impala, leaving Sam to fill the grave after the flames died down.


	2. Good Morning

**2: Good Morning**

Dean shifted in the bed, starchy sheets catching and tangling in his legs as he tried to wake up.

Something had woken him up before his body wanted to, and he processed a few things in his foggy mind. Firstly, his alarm was not going off. Neither was his cellphone. There was no crashing in of doors or fires of gunshots, and Sam wasn't calling his name.

And that's when he realized what had woken him up.

Turning and covering his eyes with his arm, he called out "Sam?" and heard his brother's reply, but not feeling like trying to make out what he said over the sizzling of bacon, "You're makin' that for me, right?"

His brother laughed and Dean rolled over in bed, not wanting to get up and possibly be roped into helping when he could garner a free breakfast out of this. They'd gotten lucky and their motel room had come with a small kitchenette, complete with ice box and stove, not just the usual sink and coffee maker. He should have expected Sam to be the girl he was and make them breakfast the day after a hunt.

And, in all fairness, maybe they deserved it. It was a simple salt and burn, but both knew those could often get a little hairy. This one had gone over almost without a hitch, both sporting a bruise or two but coming away relatively unharmed.

The sound of pans being removed from the stove and the scent of bacon making itself much more loudly known was what finally coaxed Dean into dragging his ass out of bed. He made a beeline for the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, running a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and deciding to leave it for now.

When he reemerged Sam had the bacon and a pan of eggs sitting on the small table in the corner of the room. When Dean looked at them with a raised eyebrow, Sam shrugged, supplying, "Room had some cookware, didn't have any plates. But here, forks." He offered one of the plastic fast food utensils to his brother, who accepted it but went and grabbed a slice of bacon with his hands, ignoring the heat that radiated off the thing.

"So when did you decide to go Betty Crocker?" Dean asked, faux conversationally, and smirked when Sam tensed up.

"I was just making breakfast. You used to do it for me all the time." He took a bite of eggs almost defensively.

Grinning, Dean waved his fork around the air, "Yeah, when you were a little kid and couldn't even reach the countertops. You have no excuse for making me breakfast at this point and time."

Sam made a disgruntled noise, saying something like "I didn't make it just for _you_." And Dean laughed.

"Yeah, yeah, Sammy." He took another bite of bacon, "S'not bad, if it makes you feel better." Sam rolled his eyes good naturedly as they ate. Because, hey, it was pretty good.


	3. To Fly

The world is muffled and soft, like Dean is underwater. There's a moment of panic- he's drowning, he can't breathe, god, _Sammy_- before he calms and suddenly he's floating. He's flying and he doesn't know where to but for once the heavy ache in his chest is gone, replaced with something fluttering and not entirely comfortable, but anything's better than the weight that presses down on him every waking moment that he's alive.

He wants to stay flying, now that he's out of the water, now that he doesn't have to worry or fight or cry or scream. Now that there's no one around to see when his façade breaks, when his fists curl so hard his knuckles crack, to see the nails on his hands that are bitten down and bloody, betraying him every time he puts on his act of bravado.

Hands drag him down from the sky, and Dean wants to fight it, wants to stay up there, but the hands are persistent. He thinks maybe he should struggle, but his limbs feel leaden with some invisible force. There's a flash of _demon, demon, demon_ before he forgets and is focusing on those warm hands. They aren't the cruel clutch of claws and tendrils and force behind a demon. They're warm and calloused and fucking _huge _and Dean sighs. _Sammy_.

He must have spoken aloud or done something, because God there's no way he could have tensed or fought back, not with his muscles feeling like they're made of stone, but the hands falter and readjust, hauling Dean in a new direction.

Dean can't tell if he's up or down, can't tell if the hands are trying to push him back or help him up. A wave of vertigo and nausea hit him and Dean clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth to fight what is probably bile pushing its way up his throat. The hands still and Dean manages to get himself, or at the very least his stomach under control, and through the muddled cotton of his head, Dean wonders, thinks, knows, he's probably being pulled up. There's a twinge of disappointment when that up doesn't take him back to the sky, but he isn't entirely lucid enough to figure out why it's so upsetting.

There's wind against the side of his face, something cold being pressed against his lips. He's outside, maybe. Leaning against the Impala and it's winter, or early spring, or late fall. But then he feels the soft bedding and decides _no_ he's not outside. His girl isn't supporting his weight, the wind is actually someone speaking softly into his ears, and the cold against his lips is melting down his chin.

Concentrating, _god_ when has it ever been this difficult, Dean can make out his name being said urgently into his ears. He tries to make a sound back, but he feels his throat close up and his lips crack.

"Dean." He can finally hear it, and it's Sammy. He knows it is, even if the voice sounds pained and tight and distorted. "Dean, I know you're sick. But please… you don't have to wake up, just let me get something into you."

It's a long sentence and hard to follow, but Dean reacts immediately to his brother's tone of voice. Cracking his eyes- slowly, slowly, did someone glue them shut?- he can barely make out the fuzzy outline of his brother's face framed in his long hair. He opens his mouth to say _Sammy, Sammy, where am I? What happened? Are you okay? Hurt? What is it?_ But the minute he cracks his chapped lips, Sam is pushing something between them, fingers shoving past teeth and pressing something against his tongue.

It's cold and wet and feels heavenly against his swollen tongue and burning throat. Ice, Dean figures out. His brother is feeding him ice chips.

Another one follows and Dean accepts it, would take anything if it would calm his mouth down long enough to breathe.

"Dean," he hears again and he tilts his head slightly towards the voice, "Please…"

Please what? Please what, Sammy? Is what he wants to say but instead, with the small amount of comfort that the ice gave him, he slips back under and up to the sky.


	4. Sky

**Prompt: Sky**

**Because I miss the Impala :(**

The world opens itself up to Dean when he's behind the wheel of his girl. Roads stretch on for miles, towns and cities and houses and cars bleed away until it's just Dean and the purr of the Impala's engines. Even the sky which knows no bounds curves and opens as Dean presses the gas pedal.

Sam sleeps shotgun, or he sits up and talks, or they listen to ACDC. Sometimes they drive in silence as the Impala motors on, riding the edge between reckless driving and smooth sailing. Sometimes one of them is in the back and bleeding, whoever is driving far past common sense as they drive blindly down those roads that stretch on for so many miles.

Usually, though, Dean doesn't pay attention to the world as it opens up before him. Of the things they pass, the scenes that blur by, the sky that goes on forever. It's the smell that gets to him, really. Her rumbling engine soothes him and the feel of her leather puts him at ease, but it's that smell that holds all of his memories.

That smoke and gun smell that seems to follow both brothers around, the scent of old whiskey and diner food. If he tries hard enough, Dean can pick up the bitter copper scent of blood. Those are the constants, the things that remind him he's _home_. The others, the smell of coffee, the sweet aroma of donuts, the occasional heavy acrid scent of illness come and go.

When he knows, or at least thinks, Sam isn't paying attention, sometimes Dean just runs his hands across the dashboard, along the wheels, over the leather seats. He palms the gear shift, feeling an almost erogenous thrill shoot through him. He'll lean back against the upholstery and breathe in the scent of his girl, of everything he and Sam are. Of everything they believe in and fight for.

The guilt is still there. The pain, the sadness, the loss, the fear. But here in his girl, here where he's at home, where he can feel her reverberations echo through her as he revs her engine and Sammy in her passenger seat, Dean feels that those rolling hills, that unending sky, and those unwinding roads are all leading somewhere. And he feels safe. Because he's home, and really, sometimes that's all he needs.

Some people say that the sky's the limit. To Dean, who knows much better than that, the sky's only the beginning.


End file.
